Farewell to a Friend

Dread welled up in our chests when the veterinarian pulled into the driveway. At my side was my wife and two of our sons. We all had heavy hearts as we stood and watched the doctor get out of the car and join us in the garage. At our feet was our furry friend.

Sixteen years earlier we talked of getting a dog. It was a sunny California afternoon when Donna and the kids arrived home from the animal shelter and herded a bouncing medium-sized mutt into the back yard. I admit to some initial disappointment. This German shepherd/sheltie mix wasn’t the golden retriever I had hoped for. The rest of the family pacified me by saying, “Let’s keep her for a day or two and see how we like her.” Sixteen years later, she stood wobbly at my feet, hardly able to see or hear the veterinarian approach.

Before the good fortune of adoption by our family, she had been abused. It took several years before she trusted me enough to let me rub her behind the ears with my bare foot.  She had a few bad habits when she joined us, so we sent her to obedience school.  We should have saved our money.

She was named after Star War’s Yoda, based on the resemblance of her perky upright ears. But more often than not, she got called something else, including Babe babe, Bushy Butt, Yodster, Muttkin, Pooch, and twenty other monikers.

She came close to leaving us on several occasions, the first when she was over protective of our two-year old son, and took a bite out of a family friend’s leg. The second occurred when she was hit by a car and severely broke her pelvis. She was pieced back together by Dr. Gary White, who was an exceptional veterinarian and even better friend. The patch job lasted for more than fifteen years. In that span, Yodie moved with us from West Coast to East Coast and back again, with two airplane rides across the continent.

She was a funny mutt.  One memorable Fourth of July  firework celebration sent the crazy pooch eating through the laundry room door.  Easter morning will forever bring memories of her feasting on a dozen eggs hidden in the backyard before the kids got outside to begin their hunt.  Snow will always be a comical reminder of this California-raised dog wincing when flakes fell from the sky and landed on her snout the first time.

When we moved to Portland we thought the end was near, but nearly five years later she was still fighting. In the end, we struggled with the thought of putting her down. Seventeen and a half years is 122 in dog years. Her sight went. Her hearing went. Her legs were going, but her tail still wagged happy. When her tail stopped wagging, we knew it was time. The veterinarian was a compassionate woman and had an excellent bed-side manner, but she couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down our faces as our trusted friend passed to a better place.

Thank you, Lord, for all creatures small and great, especially for a goofy dog who graced our lives.

Thank you, Yodie for your unconditional love. Tomorrow when I arrive home and open the garage door, I’ll miss your happy-tail greeting. So long, old friend. May you rest in peace.

Memories of a Chapel and the People Therein



Mormon Chapel, 1001 Ruth Street, Prescott, Arizona



Today in church, our good bishop called a 14-year old young man to the stand and presented him to the congregation for advancement in the priesthood. That simple act opened up a cache of memories of my own youth, of the chapel that was once so familiar, and associated names and faces. To this day the chapel still stands, a sentinel to my youth and upbringing in a very different time and place. As I listened to heart-felt testimonies during today’s meeting, images and voices whispered from the shadows of my past, including:

• Being introduced to our newly constructed chapel at the age of four (circa 1960) and watching from inside the building as construction workers graded the parking lot before paving.

• My mother’s horror during a rather dry sacrament meeting when she turned to find her five-year old son whittling on a pew, and a tearful forced march to the bishop’s office after the meeting to confess my sin and ask for forgiveness.

• A twilight evening after sacrament meeting when I "cracked my head open" on the patio after a head-on collision with another kid, which resultied in lots of blood and a river of tears, but insignificant damage.

• A unique children’s nursery with a large window adjacent to the choir seats, which allowed mothers to enjoy church meetings while tending to their toddlers, but provided quite a distraction to congregants trying to enjoy the meeting. (The nursery was demolished in a subsequent building remodel.)

• Getting baptized at the age of eight by my older brother in a beautiful font with a large mural of John the Baptist baptizing Jesus behind it.

• Of shooting baskets in the cultural hall on Wednesday nights with a volleyball, the one my mother got me for Christmas because she couldn’t afford a basketball.

• Standing in front of the congregation passing the sacrament, and biting the inside of my cheeks until they nearly bled to keep from laughing at some silly occurrence that us deacons found hilarious.

• A ring of grey smoke slowly rising  in front of the chapel while a sacrament speaker rambled and the congregation looked on curiously. This was the result of one of six deacons on the front row inadvertently lighting a match he was fiddling with. (Names omitted to protect the guilty, but you know who you are Don Davis.)

• Having my scout master (Brother Blair) scream in my face and threaten to stuff my puny 12-year old body through a small window in the scout room after one of my youthful indiscretions set him off.

• Brother Ervin Davis throwing a lesson manual across the room when pushed to the limit by a room full of ill-speaking inattentive deacons.

• Smoke filling the edifice on a Sunday morning between meetings, after a young man tossed an old hat onto a high light fixture in the foyer and it began to smolder. (For the guilty party, revisit the burning match incident above)

• Brother Clark, very old and stubborn, determined to fast regardless of his doctor’s orders, resulting in him repeatedly passing out in the middle of Fast and Testimony meetings and having to be stretched out on a pew until he regained consciousness.

• Disc-jockeying Saturday night youth dances with my older brother’s state-of-the-art stereo system, and repeatedly inching the volume higher while Brother Turley insisted it be turned down.

• Sitting in the chapel with my teenage buddies during a Sunday meeting, improvising words to a popular hymn. “And should we die, before our journeys through, what the hell, all is well.”

• Playing dodge ball on mutual nights in the “cultural hall” and vying for position on the stage-side of the gym where the curtains dampened impact and prevented balls from bouncing back to the opposing team.

• The furious shouts of Brother Burris from his doorway across the street and the squeal of burning rubber while I spun doughnuts in the church parking lot in my ’57 T-bird in the late hours of the night.

• Early morning seminary at the church before walking up Ruth Street to start each day of high school.

• And finally, of a farewell talk in sacrament meeting before leaving on a full-time mission, in which the main speaker (me) was timed in a not-so-lengthy address of two minutes, thirty five seconds.

For the city of Prescott, Arizona, and in particular to the friends and members of my Mormon congregation, some who loved me and others that merrily endured, for the rich cultural soil which proved to be so fertile to a young man’s roots, I give sincere thanks.